Writer's Anxiety
BY KARDELEN KALA (TRIN/I)
kala@ug.bilkent.edu.tr
Panting and gasping, I arrive at the bus stop with ten minutes to spare. I lean on the fence surrounding the park behind it, trying to catch my breath. I'm secretly grateful for the brisk jog leisurely walk after a weather-inappropriate meal of greasy and spicy shish kebabs. I look around at the people near me. No familiar faces. It's late in the evening -- too dark to read a book to pass the time. I decide to read the news and check my email instead. The artificial light of the small touchscreen was designed for times like this, wasn't it? I type in my username and password, wait for the connection to be established and open my inbox. Then I promptly remember why I hate being able to check my email anywhere and everywhere.
I have an email from Bilnews informing me that because the next Monday (April 23) is a national holiday, deadlines for this week are stricter than usual. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem for me, as I have a very effective system of meeting any deadline: I simply pretend that the item in question is due two days before the actual deadline. This way, I've always managed to deliver my columns on time. So, why am I panicking right now? You see, for the first time in the two years I've been writing this column, I'm late. I was counting on my usual punctuality and the good credit I hoped I had to get me through this one. Surely being late once can't hurt, can it? Long story short…I was going to ask for an extension, but it's now apparent that I can't. So here I am, sitting on the fence operating a frustrating Android keyboard to write an email to myself.
Usually, I wouldn't panic. My mind works in interesting ways: I've been known to come up with elaborate arguments and articles with complex structures under pressure. I'm experienced enough to generate ideas on the run, however uninspired they may sometimes be. However, today the sweat feels cold on my back. My mind is blank. I have nothing to say. This may be my first serious experience with what's called writer's block.
I look around desperately for some ideas. What do I usually write about, I ask myself. What I do, think and feel each week is the basic answer. My mind searches through its archives for appropriate content. A little critique of the book I'm currently reading? Seeing as it's a collection of essays on the Chinese revolution, probably not. Something about music, maybe? I concentrate for a couple of minutes on what's playing on my mp3 player, searching for inspiration. My shuffle today seems to be following a theme, playing songs from a particular period of my life, oddly reflective of the conservative side of my taste in music. However, as much as I love to revisit them occasionally, I do think anything that could be written on "Blowin’ in the Wind" or "Stairway to Heaven" has already been written, probably more than a few times. Even their creators aren't particularly interested in these songs anymore; Dylan moved away from his folksy optimism a long time ago to become the legend he is today, and I remember reading somewhere that Robert Plant doesn't want to perform "Stairway" nowadays. The rest of my shuffle list isn't promising either.
Increasingly desperate, I start thinking about more abstract concepts or big changes. Is there something I've been thinking about a lot recently? After reading it about a month ago, I became obsessed with Sylvia Plath's novel "The Bell Jar" and the ideas it evokes, but I've talked about it so much and written about it in so many
languages that it would feel
repetitive and boring to do it again. And I don't think my decision to start flossing regularly counts as a big change. I just can't find a way out
of this.
So here I am, feeling all drained and unimaginative, letting myself down more with each passing second. Once I needed the term "writer's block" in a French paper I was writing. According to the dictionary I used, it was "l'angoisse de la page blanche," which loosely translates as "blank page anxiety." I think this is a very accurate description of how I feel looking at a blank white page (or computer screen) and not having words flow out of me. I do hope it will pass soon.
Oh, here we are at the gate. That wasn't so bad now, was it?